My joke is that there are two kinds of emos — Jimmy Eat World emos, and My Chemical Romance emos. Like much of nature, however, emo can’t be contained into a binary system. Where do we categorize the Taking Back Sunday emos, or the poor, poor Brand New emos who have been languishing ever since it came out that Jesse Lacey kinda sucks? Another band that doesn’t fit cleanly in the JEW/MCR dichotomy is Motion City Soundtrack.
Musically, they’re probably happier sounding than most of their peers — lots of major keys, fast tempos, and cool ass synths. But their lyrics sound as if they’d been written by every one of my mental illnesses in a trench coat. I don’t even have to dig that deep to find songs that match whichever ailment is weighing me down at the moment. Like, their signature song is textbook obsessive compulsive disorder.
I’m sick of the things, I do when I’m nervous Like cleaning the oven or checking my tires Or counting the number of tiles on the ceiling Head for the hills, the kitchen’s on fire I used to rely on self-medication I guess I still do that from time to time
-Motion City Soundtrack, “Everything is Alright”
I remember when my dad was in the hospital for a heart attack that nearly killed him, I discovered “Time Turned Fragile,” a song about cherishing the relationship you have with your father and realizing he’s not going to be around forever. “Son of a Gun” takes me back to the drunken tiffs I had with my wife before deciding to sober up, when my stupid antics were all about “pissing you off just for fun.” And “Even If It Kills Me” was the song I played on repeat as I put in my application to music therapy school for the third time, because I too was “so sick of making lists of things I’ll never finish.”
There’s something powerful about a lyricist that can write words that relate so uncannily to one’s life. That feeling when you realize a song is unmistakably written for you — I call it the Motion City Soundtrack Effect, because I can’t think of a band that does it better than them. Taylor Swift comes close at least.
Real recognizes real.
It’s something I aspire to as a songwriter. The only feeling better than finding that song that you relate to so deeply is being the one to write that song for someone else. It’s why I write music in the first place. It’s more than just a catharsis for myself. I write everything in hopes that somebody out there will hear one of my songs and perhaps realize they’re not alone in whatever they’re going through. You know, the same way I realize I’m not alone in my struggles when I listen to MCS.
I’ve written about the power of music and its ability to affect people on a deep level before. I’ve written about discovering it in my own life. I’ve even written about the dark side of these parasocial relationships with musicians before. But it’s worth mentioning again and again — music is a powerful tool, probably the most powerful tool we as humans have, more powerful than bombs or guns or even words. I believe music has the power to change the world, which is why I chose to do it all those years ago, and why I still choose to do it after all this time. Songs can save a life.
I forgot to mention the final few lines of that verse I shared earlier.
But I’m getting better at fighting the future Someday you’ll be fine Yes, I’ll be just fine
-Motion City Soundtrack, “Everything is Alright”
I’ll admit I teared up a little when I heard this song played live last night, despite it being one of their happy-sounding uptempo numbers, because it reminded me of how far I’ve come in my own fight with mental illness and OCD. I remembered listening to those words and wishing for a day I’d be just fine, and now I’m finally in a place where my fears are (mostly) under control.
That song and this band have been with me through it all, and I owe a lot to them.
Do you have a band or a certain song that saved your life? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments! If you like what you read here, feel free to support the blog by donating via Venmo (@jessjsalisbury)or CashApp ($TheJessaJoyce). Thanks for all your support!
Welcome to the inaugural Music Review No One Asked For, where I give my opinions on popular (and unpopular) music. For this first installment, I wanted to dip into the songs I hear literally every day of my life, on repeat, forever. I don’t know what cursed Pandora station my coworkers have chosen to be the soundtrack of the urgent care I work at (shout-out to all my fellow healthcare workers, yo), but I swear I have every song it plays memorized at this point. That being said, while there are some songs I wish I could obliterate from existence, there are a few bops amongst the rubble. Let’s start with the queen herself…
Taylor Swift – “Karma”
This was one of my favorites from her Midnights album, and for good reason. It’s catchy as hell, and so deliciously bitchy. That being said, I feel like it loses its luster after 4735383729 listens, which isn’t to say it’s a bad song, just that it doesn’t have the same staying power as some of her stronger material (like “Hits Different,” which I’ve subjected myself to for almost an entire four hour car ride and I still can’t get enough of). The new version with Ice Spice does little to inject new life into the song, mostly because there’s a bazillion other female rappers out there who could do better. Now if Angel Haze was on a Taylor Swift remix, I don’t think I’d ever listen to anything else.
Luke Combs – “Fast Car”
When I first heard this song on the radio, I had to do a double take. It’s so true to the original by Tracy Chapman, I initially thought it was the original by Tracy Chapman (in my defense, the speakers at work are bad). It’s so true to the original, Combs didn’t even change the gender of the song’s protagonist, which I have to admire. Here’s this big, burly, bearded country boy, and yet for the sake of this song, he works at the market as a checkout girl. I actually don’t mind hearing this song when it comes on because it stands on its own. It’s a powerful example of storytelling in music — the girl in the song desperately wants to escape her life of poverty with her lover, but he eventually succumbs to the very vices that plagued her own father. It’s a sad song, and it’s even sadder that the most meaningful song on mainstream radio right now was actually written in the 80s.
Jax – “90s Kids”
Is there a Grammy for “Most Irritating Song”? Because Jax is seemingly gunning for it. “Victoria’s Secret” was bad enough, but this one makes me want to stick forks in my ears every time it comes on. The references all feel forced, and besides, we’re all too old to be pandered to. Go write something for the Zoomers.
Some Guy – “Sunroof”
I don’t know who performs this song. It’s not even on the album art. It could be anyone. All the guys on the radio kind of sound the same these days anyways. Like, if you put a gun to my head and asked me to point out Post Malone in a police lineup, I’d be screwed. And for the most part, they all sound the same to me. It’s like how all the post-grunge guys had a “sound.” Can you honestly tell Nickelback from Skillet? I mean, I can, but only because my ex-husband subjected me to more Skillet than anyone should have to hear in a lifetime. Anyways, I digress. This song is kind of good, if I’m honest. The little “da da, da da dada dah” part gets stuck in my head frequently. As a songwriter, I admire anyone who can write a good earworm. Would I go out of my way to listen to it? Probably not, but it’s a pleasant little ditty.
Miley Cyrus – “Jaded”
It’s easy to assume my favorite modern pop singer is Taylor Swift, but the truth is, while she’s my favorite songwriter, she’s not my favorite vocalist. That honor goes to Miley Cyrus. The woman can do it all — rock, rap, country — and all with the finesse Kid Rock can only dream of. That being said, I was a little disappointed with this single. I was hoping she’d lean a little more into the rock direction she’s been heading in, and the chorus is fairly forgettable. I’m only judging her harshly here because I know she’s capable of better. Come on, Miley. Hit us with the true bop we all need right now.
What do you think? Agree? Disagree? Let me know in the comments! If you like my content, feel free to donate to keep this blog going via Venmo (@JessJSalisbury) or Cashapp ($The JessaJoyce). Thanks for all the support!
This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four
From the moment I emerged from the womb, I was obsessed with music.
Well, maybe not from that exact moment. I was probably preoccupied with, you know, learning how to breathe air and stuff.
But music was my first love and first language. I remember humming little songs to myself as I spun around, my first dabblings in songwriting. I didn’t know how to write those songs down, as I was a literal toddler, but I loved making up little melodies and singing them to myself. My parents even got me a tiny Walkman with a “record” option and had me singing into it from time to time. I wish I knew whatever happened to those old cassettes. If I ever hit it big, those tapes would be worth millions.
Some of my favorite memories involved singing and dancing around pretending I was Dodger, a cool dog voiced by Billy Joel from an old Disney film called Oliver and Company. (If, by happenstance, you end up with a brother, his name will likely be Oliver. He is not named after this film. Let this be clear. Your brother was not named after a movie with a cool dog voiced by Billy Joel. I just liked the name, okay?) Sometimes my mom would work out and play stuff like Foo Fighters and the Backstreet Boys, which is probably considered oldies by the time you read this. While she would do this, I’d stand in the mirror and lip-synch to the songs, make-believing I was some kind of rock star.
The point being, music and performing have always been an integral part of my identity. Noting this, “Santa” gifted me my first guitar for my eighth Christmas. A year or two later, my parents signed me up for one-on-one guitar lessons with a young punk named Eric, who my mom thought was hot. I’d been kicked out of swimming, gymnastics, dance, and pretty much everything else due to my then-very-undiagnosed ADHD, but I couldn’t get kicked out of guitar lessons. And I didn’t want to be kicked out either! I took to the instrument like a seal to water, and while I didn’t practice as much as I should’ve (read: undiagnosed ADHD), I was a natural. The language and theory of music just made sense to me.
But there was more to my love of music than just the music itself. I loved the idea of sharing it with people. I would watch Behind the Music documentaries for hours on end all about the inner workings of bands I liked. Maybe it’s because I had trouble making friends and was hilariously unpopular as a kid, but I idolized the idea of having a musical found family. I craved the intimacy of working closely with other people who had the same goals and interests as me.
Still, music was very much my personal thing, until one fateful day when I realized I needed to perform, to share my music with people outside my inner circle. It was the first time I ever sang in front of an audience.
In seventh grade, we took an end-of-the-year field trip to the Motown Museum in Detroit. My days at that school were numbered — I’d convinced my parents to let me switch to a semi-private school to escape the constant bullying. Still, I had to get through this stupid trip, which actually was a welcome reprieve from my usual day of sitting in the library like a loser and actively trying to avoid contact with my peers.
The museum, nicknamed Hitsville, USA, was actually more like a small house than whatever you’re picturing, and it’s been said some of the greatest songs of all time had been recorded there. I don’t remember much about the field trip itself, except that in the recording studio, there was a giant hole in the ceiling. This was a reverb chamber, where recordings would be played into and recorded back in order to get a crisp echo effect. The tour guide wanted a student to demonstrate how it worked by singing beneath it. No one’s hands went up. A shiver ran down my spine.
I will never see these people again.
Meekly, I raised my hand and all eyes were on me, the class weirdo who never talked. I took my place underneath the reverb chamber and sang the chorus of my favorite Motown song, “My Girl” by the Temptations.
The silence that followed was deafening as dozens of wide eyes zoned in on me. Suddenly, the room erupted into applause. As I took my place back in the group, I was greeted with a flurry of “Woah, that was incredible!” Even my biggest bully asked me not to forget her when I won American Idol. For my last few days at that school, I was no longer the class pariah, but the class Mariah.
Things changed quickly once I discovered my niche in life. I started playing guitar and singing for literally anything I could weasel my way into. At my new school, I became “the voice” of the student population, singing the national anthem for every event and accompanying the jazz band with its vocal pieces. I even got to play (an obviously much whiter) Beyoncé in a choral performance of “Single Ladies,” leotard and all. I became a significantly more confident person with every performance under my belt.
Cadence, I don’t know what your calling will be. Considering who’s likely going into making you, you’ll probably be musically gifted as well. And incredibly smart. And beautiful. And probably have IBS, but you win some and you lose some. No matter what, I know your passion will find you one way or another. And once you find it, chase it with everything you’ve got.
If you enjoy my writing and want to help support me and this site, you can donate via Venmo (@jessjsalisbury) or CashApp ($TheJessaJoyce). Every little bit is greatly appreciated! Thanks for taking the time to read my work, and don’t forget to check back every few days for new content!
It’s fitting that I write this as one of Taylor Swift’s songs plays on the radio at work. Not like I write this stuff on the clock or anything.
Certainly not!
You see, Tay’s the catalyst for the events of this story. Or rather, her loyal army of stans.
My band had a show on Friday, hilariously enough competing with Taylor Swift’s show in Detroit. So I made this infographic as a joke to convince people to see us, a dinky ass local band, instead of her.
I know in humor you’re supposed to punch up, but in this case the punch was more of a playful nose-flick. Everyone in the band is a Swiftie, after all — we just thought it would be a funny way to drum up attention for the band and our show.
At first, we got a pretty hearty positive response, people saying we “won them over” and wishing us a good time at the show.
Then the stans came.
Suddenly, we were inundated with accusations of misogyny (hilarious in hindsight because we’re mostly women), homophobic (also hilarious because we’re mostly queer), and even mocking her mom’s cancer (I sure hope that stan warmed up before making that stretch). One of the “nicer” commenters asserted she’d seen her “three times on this tour” for less than her paycheck and has met her many times. The ones that hurt the most were accusations of us belittling a fellow artist — we would never attack another creator maliciously. Like, we made it clear in the caption that we were actually huge fans and meant no harm to Taylor.
But when you’re a stan, there’s no gray area. Make one perceived slight against their object of adoration, and you become public enemy number one.
Why do people do this?
I think it all comes back to the parasocial relationship people have with musicians. The beauty of music is that it’s a deeply personal medium that brings people together. That’s what drew me to music as a little autistic kid who had trouble socially. Music — and the people behind it — felt like friends to me. There’s a reason I’d make believe I was Bon Jovi and methodically watch anything related to them. In the end, music is what helped me connect to other people and build relationships that have lasted years.
But like nearly everything, there’s a flip side to that phenomenon. Take, for example, the song that gave stans their name — “Stan” by Eminem.
In my personal opinion, “Stan” is easily one of the most unnerving songs ever written. In it, a man describes his obsession with Eminem through a series of letters, culminating in him committing a murder-suicide after being let down by his idol. It’s absolutely chilling and worth listening to. In fact, I’ll link it here:
Another musical episode!
It’s almost funny how watered down the term “stan” has become — or has it? If it came down to it, would Swifties die for their queen? Would the BTS army kill for a bunch of cute guys from the other side of the world?
I mean, they are cute.
I’m almost afraid they would, and that’s because it’s happened before.
If you look at my YouTube subscriptions, you’ll find my two biggest interests to be music and true crime. Don’t worry — I’m not one of those weird Jeffrey Dahmer lovers or hybristophiliacs. I like the thrill of being scared, but fictional monsters don’t do it for me because my brain doesn’t register them as a threat. What does scare me is the fact that real life monsters exist, and are absolutely a threat. And every now and then, the stars align and I find something to watch that’s both music and true crime related.
Ever hear of the Bjork stalker? No?
Ricardo López was your average incel before the term even existed. He was a social recluse who retreated into the world of celebrities to dull the pain of not having many friends, let alone a girlfriend. His main fixation was the Icelandic singer Bjork, to whom he wrote many fan letters and considered her his muse. The obsession wasn’t sexual — he couldn’t envision her as anything but this pure, innocent figure.
So when she finally did get a boyfriend, and a black boyfriend at that (yup, he was kind of a racist too), Ricardo was furious. He wanted to send her straight to hell for her perceived slight against him. So, viewing the process as a sort of sick art project, he began filming a series of video diaries chronicling his plan to kill Bjork with bomb hidden within a book. Ultimately, he’d kill himself too, and he and his love interest/victim would be united in the afterlife.
In the conclusion of his series of “art films,” Ricardo shaves his head and paints his face green and red before shooting himself in the face, dedicating his suicide to Bjork as one of her songs drones on in the background. His bloated corpse and the video tapes would later be found by police, who immediately recognized what was happening to be a threat. They managed to intervene just before the package reached Bjork, narrowly sparing her life.
This is what fandom looks like at its worst, and it still happens. Even our girl Taylor has had to deal with it. And this is why I’m scared to death of becoming anything more than a local act, even though my band is slowly making its way toward greater things. Because with more attention comes more obsession, and people are fucking crazy. Maybe Taylor’s stans will come for me, or I’ll say something to piss off the BTS Army. Or worse, Wake Up Jamie will accumulate its own obsessive fans, and there will be that one bad apple who decides to Selena me.
People need to realize musicians and other performers are literally just people. We make art, we make mistakes, and we have dreams and fears like everyone else. Standom tends to raise people to a godlike level, but at the end of the day, we’re all a bunch of stinky, pulsating meat living on a giant rock. Even Taylor.
Everyone sucks. It’s a pretty well-established fact of life. I suck. You suck. Your mom sucks. Hilary Clinton sucks. Donald Trump sucks. The Queen of England sucked. Name your favourite or least favourite person alive, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that they definitely suck. The very first thing we learn to do upon exiting the womb is suck (in a literal sense, but also in a figurative sense). It’s in our human nature.
There’s an entire tirade in the Bible about this, actually. It’s particularly referring to the Jewish and Greek folks who would have engaged with this writing at the time, but you could swap in any ol’ demographic and get the same idea. Black or white, cis or trans, Christian or atheist, and anyone and everyone else. We. All. Suck.
“None is righteous, no, not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God.
All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one.”
Romans 3:11-12
Recently, I’ve learned a lot of my favourite creators suck, too. And I’m not talking incredibly famous people, but people who are just like me, people who create and share things. These people are musicians and bloggers and writers who just so happened to reach the right amount of people to “make it,” whatever that even looks like. But the point is, I could be any one of them.
It’s exciting. It’s humbling. It’s scary.
One of my favourite YouTubers is apparently a nightmare to work with. Another took a picture with all her friends — who just so happened to be skinny, white-passing, and attractive by our narrow Euro-centric beauty conventions — and spun the post as body positivity. One of my favourite podcasts of all time got derailed because…I’m still not entirely sure. Stevie Nicks’ landmark song has a title that’s quite literally a racial slur. And I could list every infraction ever committed by my favourite guitarists, from John Mayer’s general fuckery to how Richie Sambora drove drunk with his daughter in the car. Even my beloved Chili Peppers aren’t innocent, sexually assaulting a fan in the early 90s and citing a porn star who was literally underage at the time she was active in the industry as a muse.
“Beat it, creeps.”
I’ve always wanted to be famous, ever since I was little and ran onstage at some show because I was mad the actresses were getting attention instead of me. I used to daydream at great length about becoming a rock star, crafting entire scenarios in my head about what my life and career would be like. I imagined the inevitable biopic that would be made about me, my internal dialogue becoming a narration of the story of my life from the perspective of someone who thought I was cool enough to make a movie about.
But at the same time, I don’t know if I can handle being famous. And that’s simply because I suck. Certainly not as much as some of the creators I mentioned above, but I still suck. I’ve said and done things I regret a lot, and I’m just lucky that I wasn’t in the spotlight at the time. Because I honestly don’t know if I could handle the criticism, even if it was justified. Especially if it was justified. I hate the feeling of being wrong, almost as much as I hate the idea of ever hurting anyone.
As a creator of any type, there’s so much pressure to be perfect, not just looks-wise but as a person as well. We need to be a role model. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think creators should strive to be positive influences for their fans, and I think creators should be held accountable when they inevitably fuck up. Some of those things might be unforgivable. Should the allegations against Michael Jackson be true, for example, we definitely need to stop holding him up as an idol. Should we stop listening to his music? I think that’s an even more complicated issue that I’ll probably address in a future post. But for relatively benign “maybe I didn’t realise this was racist at the time but now I know better” kinds of problematic behaviour, I think we need more space for grace. Because God knows I’ll need it.
I want so badly to make waves as a musician or writer, but sometimes I find myself paralysed by the pressure to be above reproach in all things. What if something I posted ten years ago on Facebook resurfaces and shows me as a total asshole now? You have to put yourself out there to get any ounce of fame, but in the process, you open yourself up to so much scrutiny. And sometimes I wonder if I could handle that. I cry if someone looks at me funny (I describe myself as “the stereotypical Pisces” for good reason). I think I could handle the press or some anonymous Twitter denizen calling me ugly or untalented. But if someone attacked my character, something I take more seriously than my looks or even my art, I’d probably lose it.
I hate the term “cancel culture” because of its association with the anti-“woke” (read: anti-any media that’s not cishet white male) rhetoric, but I think it’s time we cancel cancel culture to an extent. Rather, we need a grace culture, one where people are free to fuck up and be able to redeem themselves. We need to have open conversations with each other about why we suck and how we can suck less in a way that’s not defensive or vilifying. We need to be open to learning from one another.
I’m so much closer to being a music therapist, more so than ever before, and it’s hitting me all at once.
My coursework is finished, save for a few loose ends, and just yesterday I had my graduation ceremony.
I got the cool hat to prove it!
I don’t know what it was. Maybe it’s my hormones. Maybe it’s because I’m a big whiny Pisces. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the look of pride on my dad’s face as I walked down the aisle. But I cried. I never just cry, not on happy occasions. Like, I didn’t even cry on either of my wedding days. Something about this just felt so overwhelmingly right, though. Like I was finally where I was supposed to be this entire time, like my whole life led up to that moment.
And yet, I’m still mourning something. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s the finality of it all. This is the end of a chapter that took well over a third of my life. Maybe I’m sad I spent the whole of my youth studying when I could have been traveling or starting a family or running away to Nashville to play in some band that might actually become famous. Maybe I’m sad I’ll never know what the other paths would have looked like. I’m not a Sim. I don’t get another play-through. I devoted my life to learning the art of music therapy, and that’s the road I’m on.
It is disheartening to think I might never be a rock star or a mom or a free-spirited hippie living in a converted van. But then I think back to the look on my dad’s face yesterday, the majestic piano leitmotif my professor composed in my honor, and how it felt singing my favorite song lyrics of all time as part of my graduation speech — “Show love with no remorse.”
Music therapy is academia. It’s science. It’s art. But perhaps most importantly, it’s love. It’s love of all of those things, but above all else, it’s love of humanity. It’s taking a divine gift that was given to us — the gift of music — and using it as a tool to help and heal. Maybe I’ll never get to hold a child of my own. Maybe I’ll never get to revel in the spotlight of the biggest stadium. Maybe I will someday. But I know that I haven’t wasted my youth as a music therapy student, because this is what I was put on this planet to do. I was created to use my gift to leave the world a better place than the way I found it. It’s my God-given calling.
And for the first time, I’m exactly where I need to be.
Strap in, guys, gals, and enby pals. We’re in for an emotional roller coaster with this one.
This is your last warning. You will cry.
I think every thirteen-year-old girl has a chosen name. Think back to when you were thirteen and you wanted to be called, I don’t know, Renesmee or something. It was definitely inspired by something cringy like that. Me? I tried to get everyone to call me Sophitia, like the badass Greek sword-wielding action mom from the Soul Calibur series.
Definitely not a MILF (mother I’d like to fight)
No one called me Sophitia, of course, save for my dad (until my mom made him stop). Well, him and Chelsea. Or, shall I say, Helena.
Her cringy thirteen-year-old chosen name was Helena, like the My Chemical Romance song. She insisted it was pronounced “huh-lay-nah,” not “hel-en-uh.” True to the girl in the music video of the emo standard, she had pale skin and a tall but slight frame and dark hair and piercing blue eyes, all of which she took pride in. She was gorgeous and she knew, but you couldn’t help but love her nonetheless.
I don’t remember exactly how Chelsea and I met, but I remember her as an absolute spitfire who hurled herself into my life with the intensity of a tigress. She was spirited, witty, and strong-willed, the kind of girl who stood up for me in the face of notoriously cruel grade school bullies. For a solid two years, we were practically inseparable. Those years were filled with memories I’ll never forget. Like Thursday nights at my church’s youth group, getting all giddy over which cute guy talked to us. Or staying up late during sleepovers on my bedroom floor, telling each other stories until we fell asleep. Or editing our MySpaces together on my family’s computer, and the one time I got interrogated because my mom found “emo boys kissing” in my search history. Thanks for that, Chels.
Music was an integral part of our friendship. One of our favorite activities was dressing up like our favorite rock stars and putting on shows for ourselves. Being obsessed with Bon Jovi, I had us dress up like Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora. She was Richie because her hair was darker, even though I always liked him more. She’s the one who introduced me to the emo genre that defined my taste in music as I grew older. She loved this song called “Fer Sure” by The Medic Droid, and in the car she’d always sing “Kick off your stilettos and THROW THEM IN THE BACKSEAT” loud enough to obscure the fact that the actual lyrics were “fuck me in the backseat.” And of course, there was Helena and Sophitia, our cringy chosen names that doubled as our stage names. We would have these big dreams about someday starting a band together, and she wrote a little song with a melody that still gets stuck in my head to this day.
Something changed after a trip up north together, though. I asked if she had the sunscreen we bought while there and she accused me of accusing her of stealing it. What transpired was a platonic breakup worse than any of my romantic breakups have been. It’s such a stupid thing to ruin what was one of the most important friendships of my life. A girl’s BFF-ship at that transitional age of late preteendom is so important, and just like that, I lost her.
What followed was radio silence for years. I watched her grow up from afar. She joined the military, married, and had a son. Me, I went to college and had a couple of rock bands that didn’t work out. But as adults, she reached out to me and extended the olive branch, and we reconnected over our shared spiritual goals and, of course, music.
We were never as close as we were as kids, though, because shortly after we reconnected, a little global health crisis called COVID-19 happened, and all our plans to meet up fell through.
She then had a private health crisis of her own. On the warmest Christmas morning in memory, I got a text from one of our old mutual friends.
“Hey Jess, I’m so sorry to hear about Chelsea.”
I couldn’t even cry. I was numb. All these memories came flooding back like a tidal wave. I ran to my guitar and immediately started strumming the old song she wrote, and suddenly, I knew what I had to do. That day, I turned her melody into a full song she’d be proud of.
My only regret is she’ll never get to hear it.
Life is so short, and we take moments with our loved ones for granted. The next time you hang out with your best friend could be your last, and you wouldn’t even know. So cherish every memory you get, because in the end, that’s all we can carry with us through life, and those memories are what carry us through life.
So long and goodnight, my dearest friend. I’m a better person for having known you.
So, this is it. The last blog post of 2022 (probably). And I even redecorated for the occasion! Like the new color scheme? I had to incorporate bluey-green, because it’s my favorite color, but the brown just takes it to the next level, right?
I also had to update my picture. I haven’t been blonde for a hot minute, which is so weird to me, but fitting. My teens were blonde, my 20s were weird hair colors, and my 30s will be black. I’m like a Pokémon that changes colors as it evolves, and I feel like I’m finally evolving into the most powerful version of myself. I’m about to reach level 30 and become a mighty electrifying Ampharos after spending several levels as a cute, nonthreatening Flaafy.
Now I just need an Ampharosite so I can have badass hair.
This evolution has brought on a lot of changes, many of which I’ve documented in this blog. I stopped drinking entirely, which is wild to me because I love beer (hit me with your best non-alcoholic beer recommendations in the comments, readers!). It just wasn’t serving me anymore and was causing more damage to my body and mind than I liked. In addition, I got formally diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder and started taking the medications I actually need. Those two changes alone have been revolutionary. I’m not the same person I was this time last year by any stretch of the imagination, and it feels good. I wasn’t a huge fan of that version of me. I like this one more.
But the thing about evolution is that it doesn’t stop happening. In order to be the absolute best version of myself, I need to keep working on the most important project I’ll ever be tasked with — Jess J. Salisbury. Me, the person. Not the blog, although that’s a part of it.
The new year is supposed to be a time of setting goals and making resolutions, many of which won’t make it to the end of January, much less the end of the year. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to set goals I can easily set aside at the first sign of failure. My goal is to hit the gym at least three times a week. So what happens when I have a busy week and fall off for a few days? Do I just give up? That’s why I don’t like viewing my goals as “resolutions.” Instead, they’re part of a sort of year-long bucket list.
So what do I plan to do? I’m glad you asked! I’ll start with the goal that’s most pertinent to this website.
Two blog posts a week
That’s right. No less than two blog posts any given week. If I screw up one week, I’m challenging myself to jump back on it the next week. I recently wrote a post about the direction I want to take this blog, but feel free to drop more ideas for things you want to see here. I’m thinking more music musings, some book reviews, maybe some more spiritual stuff, and of course, my guide to living with ADHD, as well as the fiction I’ve been working on. There’s no shortage of things I like writing about, so make sure to keep checking back for new content often!
Keep a planner all year
I started keeping a planner a few months back. Surprise! It’s done wonders for my mental health as well as my organizational skills. My initial trick was to get a subscription to a monthly planner, so every month I’d have fresh new pages with new prompts and visuals to keep my attention. But then, the unthinkable happened — my December planner got lost in the move! Thinking quickly, I downloaded an app called Zinnia, which is essentially a journaling app for your phone. And this has been ridiculously helpful for me, since I’m on my phone all the time anyways. I can’t leave it at home. It’s always with me, everywhere, all the time.
Get down to my goal weight of 140
Ah yes, the dreaded weight loss resolution that everyone either makes or makes a blog post decrying. Yes, losing weight for vanity reasons is a slippery slope into nasty things like eating disorders, and I’m first in line to support the body positivity movement. But here’s the thing about being body positive — it only works if you’re treating said body positively. I gained a lot of weight over the last several years, and I’ve realized I can’t blame it all on my psychiatric meds, especially now that I’m taking Adderall, which should balance the antidepressant weight gain out. No, I gained this weight because I’ve treated this temple like a freaking dive bar, poisoning it with copious amounts of alcohol and greasy low-nutrient foods. This extra weight I carry is a physical manifestation of the baggage that came with being a compulsive binge eater in the beginning stages of alcoholism. I’ve cut out those two habits and already dropped nearly 30 pounds. Now I’m adding the habit of working out regularly and staying active, and I haven’t felt this good since I was in high school and in the best shape of my life. By the end of 2023, I should be down to my pre-gain size, and I’m so ready.
Become conversational in Arabic
Wallah, I mean it this time. It’s easy to forget in my white British-American English-speaking bubble that nearly half of the world is bilingual, but working at my new job has made me acutely aware of how much I suck as a global citizen. Like, I’m useless in any country that wasn’t once taken over by the Brits. But nearly everyone I work with is bilingual. I live in an area with a pretty hefty Arab population, and most of my coworkers and several of our patients can speak Arabic with ease. I don’t exactly plan on being a diplomat to Egypt or a Quranic scholar, so I’m not holding myself to incredibly high standards here. I just want to be able to say basic sentences and hold a conversation in Arabic. Right now, I know how to say “hi,” “bye,” and “give me bread,” which is useful if I’m ever like, in a dire bread emergency in Lebanon or something, but it would be nice to know some pharmacy-specific phrases.
Do 75Hard AT LEAST ONCE
I tried this already. Remember that? Just one of the dozens of things I’ve started and didn’t finish? I’ve been using the “bUt I hAvE aDhD” excuse for too long. Okay, so lots of successful people have ADHD. They’re not whining about how they can’t finish the thing. They’re out there, taking their Adderall and meditating and doing everything they can to do the damn thing. And that’s what I want to do. So 75Hard is a bunch of arbitrary rules you have to follow for 75 days. But I’m gonna follow them if it kills me, just to prove to myself that I have self-discipline, the thing that has evaded me my whole life. I don’t know when I’m going to do this (although it will probably be in the summer when it’s nicer out and I don’t have to do my daily outdoor workouts in a blizzard like a psychopath), but I want to do it once. Just so I can say that I did it.
Release WUJ 2023
Speaking of things I’ve started and never finished, I’ve been saying new music is on the way since our last release, “If I Stay,” which came out more than a year ago. This isn’t just a “me” thing, since I’m only one member of the band and this will be a group effort, but as the frontwoman, I need to make sure we keep moving in the right direction. I’m tired of stagnating as a musician. I write songs to be heard by others, and if no one’s hearing us, what’s the point of having a band? And speaking of which, I want to be more “on top” of our social media this year. People need to hear us, and if it takes TikTok or Instagram to get our music out there, so be it. The world is changing and so is the music industry. I need to take advantage of modern social media and learn how to use it to get us noticed. And speaking of music, there’s my final, most crucial goal for the year.
Finish my classes with at least a B and get that music therapy degree (finally)
That’s it. The degree I’ve been working toward for literally twelve years is so close to being mine. I started down the road to being a music therapist at 18, when my parents convinced me to change my major from pre-med to music (unlike every other parent ever), but I came to the conclusion that I was too mentally ill and messed up to ever help anyone else. And that’s a fucking lie. I now believe my mental illnesses and neurodivergences will make me a better music therapist because I’ve been on the other side. I will know how my clients’ minds work even better than a neurotypical music therapist would because I’m one of them. And now I have the tools, medications, and coping mechanisms I need to make it through the schooling I need. It’s too late to turn back now. I’m going to get this degree and get a fancy little “MT-BC” after my name, once and for all.
And there you have it. I’m done with being mediocre. Only I have the power to change my life for the better, and this is the year I finally do it.
Last night, I posted a picture of my band, WakeUpJamie, on our band’s Instagram page. This one, to be precise.
Almost immediately, we got an influx of picture “likes,” many from a new fan who just started following us! I was freakin’ over the moon excited. Any time someone new gives my little band a chance, it feels like the first time I ever played guitar or sang for my parents in the living room of our old house. You really like my music?! I get a taste of what it must be like to be my personal idol, Ann Wilson from the band Heart.
I have posted this exact picture on my social media and people thought it was me.
I received a message from the new fan, which I was excited to read, but didn’t quite have the metaphorical spoons to deal with at midnight on Christmas Eve Eve. So I left it for tomorrow-me to open in the morning. A little Christmas present to myself, you know? There’s no gift like waking up to see someone tell you how cool your band is.
So I open up this message and it’s…uh…I’ll just say this much-older guy wasn’t shy about confessing how he wanted to make me his sugar baby.
Not a damn thing about our music. Just that I was “beautiful” and he wanted a (presumably sexual) relationship with me in exchange for his money and attention.
Never mind the countless Saturdays at guitar lessons in my childhood and the hours teaching myself to sing in the shower and the hundreds of shows I’ve played in my lifetime. To this guy, I’m basically a singing hooker.
Which is a great business idea that hasn’t been done before, to be fair.
I have to admit my feelings of rage for being objectified were soft-serve swirled with a different, more positive feeling. Was I actually flattered this dude came onto me like that? On my band’s page, no less?
Surely Ann Wilson never had to deal with this?
Or did she?
I feel like I’ve written about the subject before, but I’m too lazy to find the exact post about it. But it’s not like Ann hasn’t dealt with being judged for her looks rather than her talent. Like how she was hidden behind layers of clothing and her skinny little sister, Nancy (who is equally talented, in all fairness), back in the MTV days because Ann was a little too thicc for the era’s liking. As if she wouldn’t have been revered at a Kardashian level had she been young today.
You know she was hiding a Kim K donk.
And the funny thing is, had she been young today, you know her Instagram inbox would be full of guys just like the one who messaged me. Even today, go to any Heart music video on YouTube and just read through all the thirsty comments from dudes (and probably a few chicks) who would kill for a ride on Dreamboat Annie. (And for the love of God, I hope Ann Wilson never reads this blog post, for that sentence alone. I feel so dirty.) They’re interspersed with comments about her voice at least, but you can’t deny that many of the “Wow, the best voice in rock and roll”-type comments are followed by “and also smokin’ hot!”
Would Heart have made it if Ann and her sister weren’t a certifiable 11 out of 10? How intertwined are music and appearance anyways? Male musicians are judged for their appearance too (see: every boyband ever), but you can’t deny that the pressure is more intense for female musicians. Even the least-attractive female musicians who have “made it” are still conventionally pretty, while guys get more of a pass to look like a foot. Bob Dylan is revered as one of the greatest musicians of the 20th century, and no one’s thirsting for him, right?
I mean, I’d go for it, but not everyone’s type is “dorky Jewish guy who plays guitar better than me.”
As annoying as it is to have to be a “hot girl” to make it in music, there’s a certain power in embracing your looks and sexuality to get ahead. You know the saying — “if you got it, flaunt it.” As a band with three female members, we’re going to be judged for our looks, we might as well use it to our advantage. The end goal is to get our music heard, and if it takes luring people in with our hotness, so be it.
Pictured: the hotness
I don’t think there’s any shame in using everything in your disposal to get to where you want to be, as long as you’re not hurting anyone else. If guys drooling over mine and my bandmates’ pictures will get them to pay attention to us and ultimately listen to our music, that’s what matters. We don’t write songs to play in our drummer’s studio every week and never see the light of day. We want to make a living doing what we love. We want to spread a message. We want to be heard.
Being objectified sucks — I can’t argue with that — but taking control of the narrative and the way you’re seen is strangely empowering. Maybe being a woman in music isn’t so bad after all.
It’s not uncommon for me to feel a kinship to a person I’ve never met — and never will meet. From Freddie Mercury to Zelda Fitzgerald to a number of murder victims from the scores of true crime podcasts I binge, I have a tendency to see myself in various figures. I think everyone does this to an extent. Whether it’s a fictional character or a real human who walked this earth, we all want to find someone to relate to in the things we consume.
I was listening to a podcast on unsolved mysteries when I learned her name. Elizabeth “Connie” Converse, a fledgling but pioneering singer-songwriter who gave up and ran away to places unknown, never to be heard from again.
The listening experience was eerie as hell, as the narrators rattled off various facts about her life. She worked as a writer and editor. She was also into visual art in addition to music and writing. She lived in Ann Arbor and likely walked the same streets I do today. And like me, she was plagued with depression, or as she worded it, a “blue funk.”
Connie, born in 1924, would throw herself into the local music scene in the 1950s, playing living room shows and doing home recordings with artist and animator Gene Deitch of Tom & Jerry fame. Her songs are often described as ahead of their time — think a proto-Joni Mitchell. She wrote about subversive themes for the time, things like sexuality and racism. In fact, many consider her the earliest example of the singer-songwriter genre in the US. So why has no one heard of her? Simply put, she never managed to make an impact on wider audiences. Disheartened, she gave up on music and eventually would pack her bags and disappear forever, not even telling her own family her whereabouts. Her fate remains unknown.
But her music survived. In an interview, Gene Deitch shared some of the music he’d recorded in his younger days, including Connie’s music. This sparked a renewed interest in the forgotten artist, and in 2009, an album of her music was released to the public. She finally gained the recognition she’d always wanted. And yet, no one knows if she was even alive to see her half-century-old project see the attention it deserved.
Considering she’d be closing in on 100 years old now, the chances she’s still alive somewhere is incredibly slim. But I wish she was. I wish I could meet with her in some quiet cafe and just talk about music, art, life, anything. I know we’d be kindred spirits. I’d tell her my own frustrations about trying to make it in music, about my struggles with mental illness, how I’ve fantasized about simply disappearing sometimes.
But I can’t have those conversations, so I’ll settle for continuing her legacy. I’ll take her life and learn from it, glean inspiration from it. I’ll be the best songwriter I can be. I’ll be the best writer I can be. I’ll live a life that would make her proud and kick depression’s ass.
Do it for Connie.
Like life, like a smile Like the fall of a leaf How sad, how lovely How brief
JESSA JOYCE 